


Shattered

by princess_schez



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:07:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princess_schez/pseuds/princess_schez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody got into hunting somehow, Bobby was no exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shattered

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [](http://sendintheklowns.livejournal.com/profile)[**sendintheklowns**](http://sendintheklowns.livejournal.com/), [](http://lisa725.livejournal.com/profile)[**lisa725**](http://lisa725.livejournal.com/), and colbaltJan for the beta-ing!

[ ](http://s429.photobucket.com/albums/qq20/PrincessSchez/Supernatural/Other%20Supernatural%20stuff/?action=view&current=Shattered.png)

You don’t know how it happened; everything was a blur. One day everything was perfect, peaceful. Now you wonder how your life has suddenly gone to Hell so fast.

The knife feels so heavy in your hand; you hadn’t meant to do it. She was coming after you with her own weapon – intent to harm you – but no matter what, you just can’t justify your actions. You just can’t.

You know something is wrong, but you just don’t know how wrong. A faintest glimmer of black crosses her eyes, and you think maybe your mind is playing tricks on you. But nothing compares to the look of pure hatred that has found a way on to her once sweet face.

And by all logical means, she should be on the floor, dead. You lost count of how many times you stabbed your wife; you just know that she kept attacking you, nearly missing stabbing you in the chest. Her blood still is fresh on your clothes, glistening in the late afternoon. You think some of it might be yours, but you’re not sure. You’re not sure of anything anymore.

Everything you once thought you knew – or believed – has flown out the window, never to be seen again. You thought things couldn’t get any worse, but you were proven wrong. Yet again. Your eyes have been opened by a man who burst into your home, wielding a sawed-off shotgun.

The man has an air about him that speaks volumes; he is a sarcastic, no-nonsense type, hardened by life. He claims he is a hunter of the supernatural and that demons are real. He claims he followed omens that have led to your home, your sanctuary, and that your wife is possessed. But you think the man is just bat-shit crazy. Yet something deep in the furthest regions of your souls feels that what he said has a ring of truth to it. Perhaps you’re crazy too.

Loudly, you scream at the man to leave you and your wife alone, that she needs the hospital, but he stops and stares at you with unblinking eyes before telling you she needs to be exorcised and to shut the fuck up and stay out of his way before he shoots you full of rock salt.

He scrawls something onto your floor. If your wife was even remotely herself, she’d be pissed that her clean floor had been soiled. You wish she would be pissed at something so trivial; it would mean everything was normal again. You get a better look at it; a pentagram. Weird symbols surround it, and you feel your stomach drop even further.

The stranger manages to tie down your wife, and you almost lose it. Prepared to do God only knows what – after all, you’ve already stabbed your wife – you swing at the man with the knife, but expertly he deflects it and threatens you again. More violence, more empty threats, but this time he keeps his gun aimed at you as he works with his free hand, cursing you every step of the way.

Your heart wrenches listening to your wife scream. You have never heard her make a sound quite like that before. It’s a cross between a cat being skinned and nails on a chalk board, and it sends deep chills down your spine. Shaking your head, you feel tears beginning to well in your eyes, and the deep pain in your heart makes you wish you were dead. Her screaming continues as the man recites something in a foreign language, and for just the quickest second you see something trickle from her mouth.

The man continues his recital, looking almost feverish as more black pours out from your wife’s mouth. Smoke, long and thin, the darkest black you’ve ever seen comes rushing out in mid-scream as she throws her head back, the vile intruder exiting through an air vent.

She goes limp in her chair, and the man rushes to check for a pulse. For the first time since barging into your home, his brash appearance is replaced by one of sympathy and sadness. He looks at you, and you know. Your world feels as though it has come apart, shattered, never to be whole again.

The tears that had been collecting in your eyes finally fall, free and fast; a sob escapes your mouth. There seems to be no end in sight. You could probably cry until you’re dead. At least then you wouldn’t feel the pain anymore.

The man speaks, his voice no longer harsh, but you aren’t prepared for what he says next. With an almost dead serious tone, he tells you that her body has to be cremated.

Anger swells inside you, but somehow you find yourself helping, despite your better judgment. Deep inside, you know it’s the only way. If the authorities found her body, you’d be arrested for murder or sent to an asylum for claiming she was possessed and trying to kill you. Out of cowardice, you help the stranger build a pyre, while you get the wheels of your grief-stricken brain to work because you know there will be questions about your wife’s disappearance that you won’t be able to answer.

And before you realize it, the body of your beloved is set aflame, and the sadness and loss hits you again. The smell of burning flesh is nothing short of nauseating, but you keep it together. You feel as if leaving her side now is the final act of betrayal, so you keep watch, patiently waiting for this horrible nightmare to be over.

You don’t know how long she burns; just that day has turned into evening and the orange embers beckon you to join her. The hunter keeps a close watch on you, as though silently knowing what you want to do. He says nothing, but the look he gives you is one of understanding, of loss, that he too knows about how hard it is to lose someone so close. To want to just end it all, to end the pain.

By morning, you are tired and fatigued. But the fire has gone out, and nothing remains of what had only been hours before your dead wife. In the hours that passed, you feel some of the sadness slip away into anger, of wanting revenge. The man explains to you that the life he lives is hard and cruel, but you don’t care. You just want revenge, plain and simple.

With reluctance, he offers to take you under his wing, to show you the ropes, and you accept without hesitation. After all, what have you got to lose? Your world is shattered, and at least if you die, you’ll be with Karen again.

The man extends his hand to you. “Name’s Rufus, by the way. Rufus Turner.”

“Bobby Singer.”

* * *

A/N: This was my first time writing a fic in second person, so I hope it doesn't suck too bad, lol.


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